


Some say the world will end in fire

by isquinnabel



Category: California Diaries - Ann M. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, F/M, Fire Powers, Gen, Supernatural powers as a burden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are exactly five people in the world who know what Isabel can do, and one of them is Isabel herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some say the world will end in fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meroure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meroure/gifts).



> For meroure, who requested Isabel Vargas fic and AU. This was a fun universe to play in -- I hope you like it!
> 
> Title is from Fire and Ice by Robert Frost.
> 
> Beta'd by ozqueen <3

 

There are exactly five people in the world who know what Isabel can do, and one of them is Isabel herself.

Every moment of every day, the need for constant and total control weighs heavy on her mind. She had to grow up fast; learning to keep herself in check was a life-or-death priority. Isabel has sacrificed a lot to become the person she is today, and it was all for something that doesn’t even have a practical use. In a colder climate, with bitter ice storms and supersized snowdrifts, she’d be an asset. 

In Southern California she is, at best, a novelty.

At worst, she’s a time bomb.

  


\-----

  


“Are you alright, hija?”

Isabel’s bedroom is in that disastrous state that occurs in the middle of a huge spring clean. To be honest, so is the entire house – there’s just one week to go until the move to Anaheim, and everything they own is either in a sealed cardboard box or in complete and total disarray.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She tips an old shoebox full of dried-out dollar store make-up into a trash bag. “I’m cleaning out my closet as I go, there’s a ton of stuff in here that I don’t need.”

“Add the clothes to the pile downstairs, Papi’s taking a load to the shelter this afternoon.” Wincing, Mami rubs the back of her neck. The weeks of packing and lugging and lifting and bending are taking their toll. “Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t seem like yourself this morning.”

Isabel shrugs. “Just busy. I’m behind with my packing.”

This is absolutely untrue. Isabel has been methodically working through various to-do lists for weeks, all the while badgering her sister to do the same. Amalia is the one who’s perilously behind in her packing, and Mami knows it. 

Thankfully, she lets the matter drop.

“Greg called while you were in the shower,” she says, with the air of someone intentionally changing the subject.

“Oh, thanks. I’ll call him back in a minute,” Isabel lies. Her grip tightens around the empty shoebox. “Are _you_ okay? Is your back playing up again?”

Mami sighs. “It’s not too awful today. I’m going to take a nap before I tackle the kitchen, though.”

Isabel voices enthusiastic approval of this idea. Partly because poor Mami really does look exhausted, but also to get rid of her. Conversation is last thing Isabel can handle right now; too many lines of inquiry could lead straight to Greg.

Exhausted or not, Mami is in a chatty mood and it takes a minute to get her out the door. By the time she leaves, the cardboard in Isabel’s hands has begun to smoulder.

  


\-----

  


“Isabel!” yelps Amalia. “I _love_ those jeans! I can’t believe you’d just dump them with the shelter stuff without even _asking_ if –”

“So take them!” snaps Isabel. “See if I care!”

  


\-----

  


Isabel, by necessity, is ambidextrous. She begrudgingly accepts the fact that there will always be classmates who can’t resist throwing sharp barbs of jealousy her way because of it. “Must be nice,” some kid once snarled at her after an AP Psych final. “Knowing you’ll never miss out on a scholarship because of a cramp.”

Isabel did not bother to hide her eyeroll. 

“ _What_?” the girl had snapped. “It’s a legit complaint. Something as lame as your hand cramping up could stop the rest of us getting into our first choice college. You never have to worry about that! God, it’s _so_ unfair.”

“And _so_ unlikely.”

The girl shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe. But definitely not impossible.” 

(Isabel had been unable to resist slipping a lottery ticket into her locker the next day, with DEFINITELY NOT IMPOSSIBLE scrawled along the top in black sharpie.)

Other things that are definitely not impossible include: Isabel accidently losing control in her left hand, and burning down the school.

  


\-----

  


And the thing is, at the time, that’s exactly how she would have described the likelihood of accidently setting someplace (or someone) ablaze. _Definitely not impossible_. Equally as likely as that stupid lottery ticket actually winning the ten million dollar jackpot.

Perhaps she should start buying lottery tickets.

  


\-----

  


_“Yes…” He catches Liz Randolph’s eye. “…until Isabel moves.”_

Isabel grits her teeth. They’re only a half hour out of San Diego. _Get a grip_ , she scolds herself. _You’re in a car. You’re right by a gas tank!_

  


\-----

  


Mami and Papi have a book about kids like her.

Or, well, it’s not so much a _book_ as it is a handful of typewritten pages, held together with cheap plastic binding. The front cover has no title, and no author. The world she was unwittingly born into is apparently shrouded in secrecy.

Whenever Isabel asks about the origin of this book, Mami never exactly showers her with details.

“Abuela Aurora has contacts,” she says. “Your great-grandmother had the same abilities as you, and abuela was convinced that Tío Luis and I would as well. She did a lot of research during her pregnancies. She knows people.”

This is as much as she will ever say.

Reading between the lines, Isabel has surmised that somewhere out in the world, there are other people just like her.

She has never been able to decide whether this is reassuring or horrifying.

  


\-----

  


Their new house in Palo City is marginally nicer than the one they left behind in San Diego. Isabel’s bedroom is larger, and it has a window seat. As unsettling as the new house currently is – seeing furniture you’ve known all your life in some strange house always feels a bit like living in a parallel universe – she knows that she’ll soon grow to like it.

“So,” she says one morning, “I was thinking I might start taking a class again.”

“Well… great,” responds Papi. “We already assumed that you’d be showing up at your new school, but it’s good that you’ve confirmed it.”

“No, I mean… probably not karate again but, you know, that kind of thing.”

Mami and Papi both freeze. Mami nearly drops her spoonful of cereal.

“Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, I just–"

“You haven’t had any accidents, have you?”

“No, I just think–"

“Ugh, the thermometer’s still buried in some box upstairs. I’ll buy a new one this morning, we should probably take your temperature–"

“Guys!” she shouts. “Calm down! I haven’t had any accidents. I just… things don’t feel right. It’s probably just the move, I’m expecting it to get easier. But I think I’d feel better if I was doing something.”

“It’s been years since you needed karate, Isabel.”

“And I don’t need it now, not in the same way I did when I was little. I was in good shape by middle school, the karate was just in case.” 

“Are you absolutely sure?” asks Mami. “Because this is serious, Isabel. Lives could be at stake–”

“I _know_ that,” she snaps, feeling a familiar prick of shame. “Look, I haven’t had an accident for over ten years. I know how to stop them. I can keep myself under control!”

To demonstrate, she flicks her right wrist. The flames in the palm of her hand glow gently; she’s a living, breathing, mountainside cabin.

“Yes, alright – we’re sorry, hija. We didn’t mean to imply that you can’t handle yourself. But can you blame us for being worried?”

Isabel can’t. She knows the dangers better than anyone, even Mami and Papi.

It takes some back-and-forth, but by the time Amalia stumbles bleary-eyed into the kitchen, they’ve settled on yoga.

Isabel has never been one to waste time; she attends her first class the very next morning.

  


\-----

  


She hates lying to her parents. 

It’s absolutely true that she hasn’t had any accidents. She _nearly_ did, but she also knew what to do to stop it. She prevented a catastrophe that night. If anything, she feels vaguely proud of herself for that; she has demonstrated that she is capable of keeping herself in check under rough circumstances. This is the silver lining.

It’s absolutely not true that _it’s probably just the move_. It’s not the move.

(Some days, she allows herself to indulge in the fantasy that she had just let Greg burn.)

  


\-----

  


“You’re very warm.”

It’s her second date with this Simon guy. He’s in her Calculus class, he’s cute enough, and he asked her out. She had no reason to say no. She’s doing her damndest to strike the perfect balance between _I will not let one bad experience put me off dating forever_ and _I will be more careful now, because some guys really suck_. 

“What do you mean, warm? Like… my personality?”

“No, I mean you’re _warm_. I’m sitting a few feet away and I could swear I feel waves of heat wafting from you. Are you a werewolf?”

Isabel burst out laughing.

“Yes. You got me. That’s exactly it.”

Simon shrugs. “Figures. All the best girls turn out to be some kind of supernatural creature.”

  


\-----

  


Every now and then, the news will report on a devastating suburban housefire.

Against footage of angry flames devouring someone’s home, or a somber view of the charred aftermath, a reporter will lament the horrible tragedy; lives lost, a neighbourhood in shock, cause of the blaze unknown.

There’s no way to be sure. For all they know, someone in that family left a candle burning, or the house’s wiring was faulty. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the fire that the six o’clock news, for whatever reason, didn’t report.

But every time it happens, an uneasy cloud of _that could have been us_ hangs over the Vargas household, and Isabel’s self-awareness goes into overdrive for the next few weeks.

She cannot ever, _ever_ let it happen.

  


\-----

  


She’s not pining for Greg.

Whatever she used to feel for him is gone; it’s as though his words that night flicked an off-switch. She doesn’t miss him. She doesn’t even feel vaguely sentimental about any of their good times. But his words also knocked something inside her off its kilter.

Greg and the other kids in that café treated her like she was utterly worthless. She’d never taken a punch quite like that before, and she was not prepared for how damn badly it would hurt.

That hurt on its own would have been bad enough, but she also had to deal with its ramifications inside her body. She was volatile that night. She was dangerous. She was all of the things that she’s spent her entire life relentlessly training her body not to be.

She won the battle with herself that night. She turned on her heel and walked right out of that café, letting the cool night air leech the heat out of her skin. She made it all the way home without burning anything more than her fingertips, and even that was mostly just because it was hard to see in some of the the dimly-lit streets.

But she also lost. Greg and those other kids stomped all over her dignity, and she can’t shake the feeling that she just went ahead and let them.

She’ll never forgive Greg for that.

(Or herself.)

  


\-----

  


“Hey Isabel, can you roast a marshmallow for me?”

Amalia hovers, uncertain, in the doorway of Isabel’s bedroom. She’s about a week into a month-long grounding, and Isabel can sense a distinct _I want company, but not at the expense of a lecture_ vibe from her little sister.

Feeling indulgent, she puts down her book. “Sure,” she replies. “Hand it over.”

Amalia tosses the entire bag at her before collapsing heavily onto Isabel’s bed. The bag is already open; a few marshmallows tumble onto the duvet, and one slips down the gap between the bed and the wall.

Isabel rolls her eyes. “Nice going.”

“Sorry.” While Amalia rolls onto her stomach and starts fishing for the lost marshmallow, Isabel takes one in each hand. Over the years, she’s perfected the art of touch-roasting marshmallows: half close your hand into a very loose fist, and allow to gently smoulder. Rotate regularly. After ten minutes, they’ll have the perfect amount of crispiness on the outside, while being beautifully melted on the inside.

After a few minutes of silence go by, Isabel can’t help herself. “It was really stupid of you to go to that party.”

“I _know_!” groans Amalia. “Is anyone in this house ever going to let me forget it?”

Isabel shrugs. “Those kids are idiots. I have Ms. Krueger for homeroom, and she’s really cool. It sucks that they did this to her.”

“I didn’t even _know_ about that part.”

“I know you didn’t. That was a comment on them, not you.”

They sit quietly for a while. Isabel concentrates on the marshmallows, while Amalia stares at the ceiling.

“I like the high school building. Even with all that stuff about the party.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The middle school building was insane. I had to hold my breath to get through some of those hallways.”

Isabel frowns. “Why? Because middle school boys haven’t figured out deodorant yet?”

“Well, that too, but I meant because it was way too crowded. I had to sit on the windowsill in math once.” Amalia pauses. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to prolong the whole new-kid-who-doesn’t-know-where-anything-is experience by switching buildings, but it’s okay. It’s getting easier. I like Vista, I think.”

The marshmallows are ready. Isabel offers the one in her right hand to Amalia.

“I think I do too.”

  


\-----

  


It’s Thursday morning, and when she opens her locker a note wafts gently to the floor.

 _Hey wolf-girl_ , it says. _Full moon tomorrow. Do you want some company during your painful transformation, or would you rather go it alone?_

Isabel hides a smile.

She flips the paper over. _I definitely want company_ , she scrawls. _Being a werewolf kind of bites. No pun intended. What do you have in mind?_

She slips it into his locker on her way to homeroom.

Her face feels warm.


End file.
